


to the very best of times, John.

by less_than_improbable



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After a Case, Angst, Confessions, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, bbcmartin prompt, depressing stuff, dying, waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:35:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/less_than_improbable/pseuds/less_than_improbable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John,” he started, his voice losing its richness and reducing itself into a rasp. “That.. was.. supposed to be…our waltz.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the very best of times, John.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed, posted straight after it was finished. Enjoy, and review. :D

John’s vision was filled with blood. There was blood on his trousers, on his jacket cuffs, and mostly on his hands. There was blood on the floor. There was blood on his newly bought jumper.

 

And, there was blood on Sherlock. _Too much_ blood.

 

He was panicking. All his mind could sputter at the moment was _Sherlock’s losing too much blood, he’s losing it too fast_ , _God, let him live, please let him, I can’t lose him again_ , _Lestrade’s taking too fucking long_ , and, in the depths of it, in the darkest parts of his mind, was the inevitable _I might not be able to save him this time_.

 

He could do nothing but to cradle the man’s head close to him as his friend goes into shock. His other hand was putting pressure on the tied wound, but it was doing less and less by the minute. He could hear his sharp intake of breath as he tried to gain control of his emotions. But, he was breaking. John Watson, the man Sherlock Holmes claimed could keep him right, was _falling apart_.

 

“Don’t, not again, please,” he whispered, holding Sherlock’s head closer to his chest. “You said you heard me the first time. Please, be alive, Sherlock please, don’t do this again, no, please _, don’t_.” John was losing himself. The tall and lanky man, frozen in pain and shock, raised a corner of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

“John,” Sherlock croaked, the sound of his voice muffled on the cloth of John’s nasty new jumper. He’d have to burn this one, especially this one, when John left for work tomorrow. Maybe he’d allow Redbeard to chew on it for fun. He let his eyes turn slowly to the side to regard his long lost friend. _They’ve put me down again_ , he said to Redbeard, who was watching him from a distance with tender yet sad eyes _. I can’t get up this time_.

 

* * *

 

“John.” John heard him the first time. He knew he couldn’t control the amount of grief, of despair in his voice if he ever replied to his friend. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and rubbed his cheekbones. He wondered if his cheekbones could really cut him. Maybe, if it really did, he’d get to share the pain his friend was experiencing. Maybe he’d take it away from him, even. John chuckled to himself. He was pathetic. Sherlock closed his eyes, seemingly enjoying the sensation of John’s thumb rubbing his cheekbones.

 

The silence passed and killed them slowly. _The end is near_ , it whispered dreadfully into their ears.

 

Sherlock, for all the lunacy he had, decided to hum something slowly, if not a bit broken, even if he could barely breathe. John wanted to scold him for wasting his breath, but something inside him told him to give him this moment. After the first few notes, John recognized the song he was humming to be his wedding waltz, the dance he shared with Mary. He let out a sob because he couldn’t contain it anymore, because _his best friend was dying and he couldn’t do anything to save him_.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock finished humming, the frequency of his stutters for breath increasing as he ended the song as peacefully as he could. It was meant to comfort John, but it seemed that it extracted the wrong reaction. Well, he supposed he could try for one last time. He gathered all his remaining energy for this last moment, because he could feel it, because he knew he was almost gone, and because he hadn’t said the thing he was always meant to say. He willed himself to open his eyes and look at John with all he could.

 

“John,” he started, his voice losing its richness and reducing itself into a rasp. “That.. was.. supposed to be… _our_ _waltz_.” He coughed as his breath ran out, as his life left him, and as he said ‘I love you’ to that one person who mattered most.

 

 _John_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so my friend found this prompt by bbcmartin in Tumblr, and we challenged each other to write a mini fic out of it. Here's the prompt (or what the Tumblr post actually said):
> 
> "could u imagine sherlock dying and john being a mess on his knees cradling sherlock's head in his lap and sherlock starting to hum the waltz that he wrote for mary and john's wedding to comfort john, and taking his last breath to say 'that was supposed to be our waltz'."


End file.
